


A First for Everything

by isaytoodlepip



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Bisexual Barba, Domestic Violence, Emotional Hurt, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Sexual Assault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-07-23 20:03:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 11,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7478040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isaytoodlepip/pseuds/isaytoodlepip
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having his life threatened wasn't the first time Rafael Barba experienced violence.   How he dealt with it, though, was a work in progress.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter Warning(s): This chapter contains non-graphic depictions of child abuse.
> 
> Text within > is meant to represent characters speaking Spanish.

1.

 

The first time Rafael got hit, he never told a soul.

 

No, that’s not true. The _first_ memory he has of being hit was from a time before Alex and before Eddie and before he learned that being told a battle couldn’t be won was the surest way to get him to fight back.

 

He was five years old and had been telling his mother about…something, when his father had finally tuned into the conversation and interrupted with a stern, “in English, Rafael.”

 

Lerenzo Barba was adamant that his son would be a successful man and would frequently tell him that, to get ahead in the world, he had to sound like everyone else but have twice the heart and three times the brains. <<You look like them, thanks to your mother’s people. You might as well sound like them, too. No accent, Rafael.>>

 

But Rafael had been too swept up in his story and ignored his father’s instructions, until a sharp smack to the mouth got his attention.

 

As a grown man, he can’t quite remember how he _felt_ in that moment. It seems strange, to have only a blurry image of such a seminal moment in his life. Though he supposes it’s only of note in hindsight, with the knowledge that it was the start of a twenty-year trend rather than a shocking one-off.

 

What he _does_ remember: the soft “oh” from his mother, and her gently wiping the blood from his lip in silence. The clink of silverware against the plate as his father finished his dinner. And telling his _abuelita_ about it the next day, when she asked about the bruise.  <<You have to learn to be careful, Rafi. It’s not enough to be smart on the street. You _always_ need to read people before you talk, baby. You need to learn what they’re willing to hear. >> It was a skill that would take him decades to perfect, but he’d let that advice drive him all the way to Harvard.

 

So, the first time Rafael got hit by someone other than his father, he didn’t tell a soul.

 

He was seven years old and had just realized that the gang problem that was rampant on the streets of The Bronx in the 70s extended to the halls of PS 161. Showing up Manny Alvarez in class earned him a sharp knee to the nuts, followed swiftly by the taunting laughs of half the yard. Followed by a _real_ fight once Eddie turned up and started swinging.

 

It wasn’t humiliation that kept him from telling his parents about what had happened. It was the growing understanding of his father’s particular pathology. Lerenzo needed Rafael to excel in school, so he _had_ to speak up in class, get the marks, get the praise, get the scholarship that would get him out of the _barrio_. But the consequences of doing what his father wanted, those were still somehow Rafael’s fault. He wasn’t strong enough or fast enough or tough enough to keep Manny from going after him in the first place. And fighting back… <<don’t you know that they’re looking for _any_ excuse to keep you down, Rafael? You get expelled, you’ll wind up dead by the time you’re fifteen, hanging out with one of these fucking gangs that are tearing down this city. And if you get in trouble, don’t even think of coming to your mother and me for help.>>

 

There was no way out but through. It seemed that he was constantly following and breaking his father’s rules at the same time. So he said nothing, and hid the worst of his bruising with some foundation he stole from _abuelita’s_ purse.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warning(s): This chapter contains non-graphic mentions of child abuse.

2.

 

The first time he ended up in the hospital, he was fourteen. He, Alex and Eddie had made it into their teens without falling prey to most of the temptations of their neighborhood. Sure, there were some fights, and thank God for Eddie, but they’d avoided the gangs and guns and drugs well enough. Still, they were young and stupid and living in a cement jungle of burnt-out and abandoned buildings, ripe for petty vandalism.

 

Alex and Eddie were all about smashing windows. Rafael joined in a few times, and there _was_ something liberating about the small-scale destruction, but his real joy came from graffiti. It wasn’t a talent, per se, but he needed something in his life other than schoolwork, unrequited love, and being physically and psychologically terrorized by his old man.

 

He was in the middle of stamping a three-foot mural of Darth Vader’s helmet on a tenement wall when they heard the telltale bleating of a patrol car’s siren.

 

<<Don’t run,>> he hissed at Eddie, though Alex had already jumped the fence and took off. <<You didn’t do anything, so don’t run.>> He was remembering Manny Alvarez, who’d been shot by a cop last the previous summer as he’d tried to run away with four bucks’ worth of stolen candy in his pockets. He’d lived, but he’d never play baseball again and likely wouldn’t come back to school.

 

These officers were nice about it. They dropped Eddie off first with a warning, didn’t even walk him to the door. Rafael wasn’t so lucky, with his fingers still covered in black paint.

 

The hospital visit came two hours later. After his father left for the bar. After his mother came out of their room and told him to grab his coat.

 

<<How’d you hurt your arm?>> she asked, as they sat in the waiting room.

 

<<Fell down some stairs?>>

 

<<Make it your bike.>>

 

“Good evening, Rafael,” Dr. Byron greeted, pulling out his x-ray and holding it against the light box. “Nasty break. You’ll definitely need a cast. How did this happen?”

 

“Fell off my bike,” he answered. The doctor wasn’t listening, anyway.

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

3.

 

The first time Rafael filed a police report, he was nineteen and had just been mugged.

 

He’d been studying in the library until 1AM, trying to get a handle on deconstructionist theory for some hellish lit course, and was walking home half-asleep when some asshole with a switchblade pushed him hard into an alley and demanded his wallet.

 

He knew it was stupid, but he laughed. A fucking _switchblade_.

 

Felt a lot more impressive than it looked when it sliced open his bicep.

 

He’d have just gone home and forgotten about the whole thing, but he really didn’t want to go through the hassle of getting a new license and student ID, so walked an extra mile to the police station on the off-chance that someone could recover his wallet.

 

Despite his brief run in with the law at fourteen, and despite the neighborhood where he grew up, Rafael didn’t have anything against cops. He’d even briefly considered joining the force after college, but his old man shot that idea down quickly. Not enough prestige.

 

Still, he couldn’t help but feel nervous as the detective assigned to his case called him over to his desk. He thought it’d just be a matter of filling in some forms. Last thing he wanted was an interview when he was basically running on coffee fumes and Derrida.

 

“And what were you doing in that part of town?” the cop asked, looking as tired as Rafael felt.

 

“Like I said, I was walking home from Widener.”

 

“Doesn’t that close at 8?”

 

“Extended hours. Plus, I have a friend who works there.”

 

“That alley you’re talking about, it’s right next to that Paradise place. You sure you weren’t coming out of there? Maybe got into it with someone you weren’t supposed to?”

 

The Paradise was a club that had opened two months prior. Its blitz campaign prior to the grand opening featured fliers of semi-nude men and neon proclamations that it was Cambridge’s first gay club. It wasn’t hard to guess what the detective was getting at, and it raised Rafael’s hackles.

 

“I think I’d like to talk to your sergeant,” he growled. “I came in here to report a mugging. There’s no reason to throw accusations at _me_ , and the fact that you’re there making insinuations about my sexuality rather than asking for relevant details, like a description of the attacker…if you’ve got a problem with gays, you’re clearly shit at your job, so I want to talk to your sergeant.”

 

Rafael hadn’t been particularly offended by said insinuations in and of themselves. Sure, he was in the midst of…not crisis, but certainly _uncertainty_ about his sexuality. He wasn’t entirely comfortable with the fact that he’d started fooling around with guys the minute he moved out of the _barrio_. Never mind the years spent in Catholic school. Being a gay man in the late eighties? It wasn’t something Rafael wanted for himself. Not that he thought of himself as gay, but that wasn’t the issue. He wasn’t sure how he’d balance this new interest in sucking cock with his father’s aspirations for him, let alone his own self-image. Still, despite his ambivalence, he wasn’t going to stand for this homophobic bullshit.

 

Two hours later, Rafael finally left the station with a non-apology from the lieutenant on shift, a bandage around his arm, a case number, and the certainty that, if he did end up working in law enforcement, he’d do his best to shine a light on assholes like that.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains themes of homophobia.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warning(s): This Chapter contains homophobic themes and language.

 

4.

 

The first time Rafael started the fight, it was two months later.

 

This time, he _was_ at The Paradise. A guy from his Irish Lit class whom he’d been spending time with had dragged him out with the promise of free booze. Rafael wasn’t a fan of the club. After twenty minutes, it always seemed to get too stifling, too bright, and the heavy bass gave him a headache. But Mike was hot when he was hyper, didn’t mock him for his lack of dance skills (apart from a friendly, “Aren’t you _Cuban_?”), and kept the neon cocktails flowing. They stayed until Rafael felt he was about to drop, stumbling out at 2AM and debating about whose roommate would be least pissed off about being sexiled. They were interrupted by glass exploding above their heads.

 

“What the _fuck_?” he hissed, rubbing his knuckle against his cheek where an errant piece of glass had nicked him.

 

“Faggots!”

 

Rafael’s first thought was “who the hell starts this shit outside of a crowded gay bar on the most queer-friendly street in town?”

 

His second though was “I’m gonna kick the shit of these preppy assholes.”

 

And he did. It came as a surprise to him. He wouldn’t consider himself a passive guy. He talked a lot of smack and could hold his own in a fight, both verbal and physical. Still, he’d never actively pursued violence and, in the many _many_ times he’d had violence thrust upon him, his favored tactic was to weather the punches until his opponent got tired or until backup arrived.

 

Not this time. This time, he calmly made sure that Mike was ok and would stay put, and then he threw himself at the bastard who’d clearly come to the wrong neighborhood. And he _lost it_. It was ugly, brutal, and visceral. It was a decade of being smacked around by his father. It was years of being scared and ashamed of whom he was becoming. It was a lifetime of being angry at his family, his ethnicity, his class, his neighborhood, his friends, and every bit of himself that he hated. But it was also this specific moment, when he and his friend were attacked for who they were and who they loved. All of that gave him the strength to break the fucker’s nose, a couple of his teeth, and two of his own fingers before he came to his senses and walked away.

 

He threw up on the walk home. He never saw Mike socially again. And it would be three years before he’d sleep with another man.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This Chapter contains non-graphic domestic abuse by a romantic partner.

 

5.

 

The first time he was hit by a partner, he was a third-year law student.

 

He’d been dating Tom for two years. Time and habit-based monogamy were all that made it serious, in his view. Rafael had come to accept his bisexuality. He’d come out to his mother (to a few signs of the cross and a hissed _don’t tell your father_ ), but he was discrete at school, resigned to the fact that his career path could be hobbled if he weren’t careful about it. So, it wasn’t some internalized homophobia that kept him from committing emotionally to Tom. There was just something missing. They got on, shared some hobbies, and were certainly compatible in the bedroom, but he didn’t feel like they _knew_ each other very well. Which is why Rafael was surprised when Tom had asked to join him in New York the summer after his second year.

 

Rafael had been accepted for an internship with the Brooklyn DA’s office. His father didn’t hide his displeasure when Rafael had announced his intentions to become a prosecutor instead of pursuing a more lucrative specialty, but it had been years since Rafael had let his father’s anger sway him. This internship would get his foot in the door for an ADA position in New York once he finished at Harvard and passed the BAR if he made a strong enough impression. He’d have to work some long hours, which he explained to Tom, and wouldn’t really have time for a social life outside of office parties, but he eventually caved in and the two of them rented a room from an empty-nester and settled in for three months in Brooklyn.

 

It was ideal, at first. Rafael reveled in the routine of putting on a suit and tie in the morning. He loved being back in New York but so far away from the _barrio_. As for the work, he was in heaven. For the first time in his life, he had an absolute certainty that he was on the right path. This, being part of a team charged with prosecuting criminals, was meant for him. It was exciting, it was intellectually challenging, and Rafael had faith that it would give him _purpose_.

 

Experiencing it all with Tom was part of the ideal, too, in the first month. They’d share breakfast in the morning and play-fight over which of the nine ties Rafael owned he should wear that day. When Rafael got home from work, they’d have a late dinner and bottle of wine and talk about their days. Tom was working on a PhD in Art History, so he’d ramble excitedly about whichever museum he’d gone to that day, trying to force some culture into Rafael, who was more familiar with music and literature than paintings. As Tom didn’t care much to hear about the white-collar crime stats he was working on, Rafael was happy to let Tom carry the conversation, hoping it would make up for the fact that they typically had only a couple of hours together a day.

 

When July rolled around, things started to change. An 80-count federal indictment of almost thirty leaders of the Latin Kings, one of New York’s most violent and notorious gangs, had DA offices across all boroughs scrambling to get paperwork together. Rafael was tasked to the team working on the files dealing with a gang hit in Brooklyn two years prior, and with the public pressure following the major news coverage of the indictment, he was pulling 14-15 hour days.

 

At first, Tom was understanding, if a bit passive-aggressive. “This is what I _came_ here for,” Rafael reminded him the second time he complained about Rafael missing dinner. Before long, it became a recurring argument. Rafael did his best to make it up to him on weekends, but he was _tired_ and it became more and more difficult to summon genuine enthusiasm about the latest exhibit at the Met.

 

But they made it through the month, and things quieted down considerably at the DA’s office by the start of August. Sadly, the damage to their relationship had been done, and on one Wednesday night, it fell apart with one ill-thrown sucker punch.

 

They’d been arguing about Rafael’s refusal to go out clubbing on Friday. After a month of long nights, he just wanted to relax, but Tom kept going on and on about being bored, being ignored, being abandoned, etc., and finally Rafael had snapped. “Jesus Christ! If you’re that desperate, why don’t you go shopping for a twink at that meat market two blocks up? I’d gladly give you a pass if you’d leave me the hell alone for one goddamn minute!”

 

Cue the punch.

 

For a minute, Rafael was genuinely in shock. He couldn’t move for all of the thoughts going through his head. There was the sense of betrayal. He thought he knew enough about Tom to be certain he’d never _hit_ him, and that faith was shaken. There was the physical pain, as the punch had caused blood, either from his lip or a loosened tooth, to well up in his mouth. There was the temptation to laugh at Tom, who was howling over what was presumably a fractured thumb. But what really froze him to the spot was the past. His age-old conviction to _never_ put up with domestic violence. He’s fairly certain that his father never hit his mother, having focused all of his anger at his son, but the _threat_ was always there. The fear. As a young boy, Rafael had promised himself that he would never be that. Either the one being hit or the one doing the hitting. But in this moment, he wasn’t sure how to react. Clearly, the relationship was over, but beyond that? He just stood there in their small rented room, staring at Tom and tasting his own blood.

 

After Tom accepted that squealing about his thumb wouldn’t make the pain go away, the room got very quiet, very fast. It was clear from his face that Tom had surprised himself with that punch, too. Rafael liked to think that the tears in his eyes came from guilt, not the pain.

 

“Are you - ”

 

“Don’t.”

 

And that was it. They went to bed in silence and, in the morning, Tom packed in silence and left in silence.

 

Rafael called in sick. The last thing he wanted was for the bruise on his face to be the lasting impression on the ADA he’d been working for. He thought about going home, or at least to his _abuelita_ ’s house, but instead he found himself at the Whitney. As he looked at the portraits on the walls, he reflected on…everything. Things with Tom hadn’t been great, but they had been good. Steady. It had been nice, having someone to come home to. To wake up to. It wasn’t a grand passion, but it was comfortable. In Rafael’s mind, the relationship should have been relatively easy to maintain. If he couldn’t do that, if he could turn a mild-mannered art student into someone who’d punch his boyfriend, when working the hours of an intern, what did that bode for his relationships should he become an ADA, or a DA? And was it worth it?

 

Staring at the faces on the wall, he noticed that they were all alone, and still all beautiful. Some in pain, but still. Moving. Over the summer, Rafael had met with survivors. He’d read the histories of victims of horrendous crimes. He’d sat in on trials that exhibited the worst of human depravity. And he’d seen prosecutors get justice and closure for suffering families. He’d seen violent criminals taken off the streets. He’d been _proud_ to contribute in the smallest way to that. Was he willing to give up on a relationship, _any_ relationship, to continue doing the good work he’d seen a glimpse of over the past three months?

 

You bet your ass he was.


	6. Chapter 6

 

6.

 

The first time he was threatened for doing his job, he was in his fourth year as the Brooklyn ADA assigned to drugs cases.

 

The learning curve on the job was steep, but he’d taken to it like a natural. He wasn’t exactly enamored with the VICE squad he worked with, but it sure as hell beat traffic court and he’d gotten his name in the papers a few times once his boss started trusting him with bigger cases.

 

<<Turning into a big man, eh?>> his father had asked him. <<When you going to run for DA?>>

 

This from a hospital bed.

 

It had been hard on his mother, and that’s all the pain Rafael could summon about the situation. When he first heard the news that his father was dying, he _tried_ to react the way he was expected to, but what little grief he felt was directed towards missed possibilities, not anticipated loss. Why couldn’t he have had the relationship with his father that would make the inevitability of losing him heartrending? He was pissed at the man for denying him that his whole life, pissed that his long illness was draining his mother of energy and of money, and pissed that he was expected to visit the hospital every other day, despite his schedule and despite his antipathy towards the man. But his mother wanted him there, so he was there.

 

“Not for a few years,” he answered, flicking through channels on the antiquated TV set before settling on _Jeopardy!_

 

Twenty minutes later, he was catching a cab home. He had better things to worry about.

 

Like his current case against Angelo Martinez, a low-level meth dealer who, for some inexplicable reason, refused a generous plea deal and had demanded trial by jury. It wasn’t looking good for Angelo. Rafael had already called four witnesses to the stand, had shown video of a sale, and placed Angelo in the meth lab itself via prints and DNA. To say he was confident would be an understatement, and there was only one more day before prosecution would rest. He anticipated hearing from Angelo’s lawyer any minute.

 

The following morning, Rafael was ambushed in the parking garage of the courthouse by Raúl Martinez, Angelo’s father.

 

He’d been vaguely aware of the hulking man throughout the trial. It was somewhat unusual, in his experience, for parents of drug dealers and manufacturers to attend court sessions, especially when the accused was in his 30s. So of course he’d been curious about the older gentlemen staring daggers at the back of his head for the past two weeks, but that was it. A curiosity. Never had he imagined that this 250 lb. pit bull of a man would crowd him up against the fire exit door and threaten his life.

 

There was no weapon. No physical violence. Just a very threatening, “If you don’t back off and get my boy out of this, you’re in for a world of hurt.”

 

And what did Rafael do? Rolled his eyes. Who actually said “world of hurt”?

 

That’s when the physical violence started. It was over in moments.

 

“You don’t wanna know what happens next if you don’t lay off my boy,” Martinez growled as Rafael struggled to catch his breath.

 

Rafael realized right away that he’d miscalculated. His own hang-ups with his father blinded him to the credibility of the threat. Angelo was an only son, chief breadwinner of the family. The wife had run off years ago. Raúl Martinez had a lot to lose. Rafael shouldn’t have been surprised that some fathers fought _for_ their sons.

 

The first thing he did, once Martinez left him there wheezing, was call the DA and disclose. He tried not to think of it as humiliating, but it was. He’d gotten his ass handed to him by someone twice his age, on his home turf. He left it to his boss to get a continuance on the trial and promised him he’d go to the local precinct to report and document that battery, in the event they decided to press charges. It was the last thing he wanted to do, but who knew how Martinez would react when his son was convicted, as he was sure to be?

 

The next two hours were spent giving his statement, having pictures of his bruised torso taken, turning down half-hearted offers of police escorts, and trying to ignore the sly grins from the assholes in Vice.

 

Finally, he called Carmen, his new assistant, asked her to divert all calls, and went home to a bottle of wine.

 

Half a glass in, his phone started ringing. Looking at caller ID, he (not for the first time) decided to ignore his mom’s call and let it go to the machine.

 

“Raf? Pick up baby, I know you’re home. That nice woman in your office told me you went home sick. Rafael? Ok, you’re not going to pick up? You’re not going to pick up. Look, I don’t want to say this into a machine, but you need to know. Baby, your father…your father’s passed. Your _abuelita_ is here with me, so if you’re too sick to deal with it, I’m…fine. Just call me back soon. I love you, baby.”

 

Rafael just kept drinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Text in > represents characters speaking Spanish.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains a non-graphic depiction of sexual assault.

7.

 

The first and only time he was sexually assaulted was on his 31st birthday.

 

He’d gone to the bar with a few things to celebrate. Not only was it his birthday, but he’d just wrapped up his final VICE case. Two months earlier, he’d prosecuted leaders of a prosecution ring and had worked closely with Brooklyn’s SVU. It was challenging, learning to sell his witnesses as victims/survivors of sexual assault rather than drugged-up prostitutes, but he certainly appreciated this group of detectives much more than the VICE squad, who’d always treated him with disdain, if not out-right hostility. He told his mom that it was down to his high-end wardrobe and Ivy League education. Really, he was ninety percent sure that the attitude had started when one of the detectives bumped into him coming out of a discreet gay bar in Manhattan with his companion’s hand in his back pocket.

 

When the DA offered him the lateral move to running sex crime prosecutions, he’d jumped at the chance to start fresh with a new squad, and he was set to begin the transition in a week.

 

So, on the night of his birthday, he and Carmen and a few of her friends found themselves at a new bar in Williamsburg. The place was a bit snobby about beers and pretentious with the cocktails, but it had an atmosphere that fit his mood well. Not too young, and not trying too hard to _seem_ young. Thirty-one. _Christ_ , that happened fast.

 

By midnight, Carmen had somehow tricked him into his 4th pinã colada and then left him, claiming an early morning, which he _knew_ was a lie because he was her boss. She laughed when he pointed that out, kissed his cheek, demanded a promise that he’d be careful getting home, and abandoned him.

 

That’s when the hipster who’d been checking him out all night finally made his move.

 

Rafael welcomed the company as he finished what he intended to be his last drink for the evening. The man, Pablo, was cute, despite the skinny jeans, plaid shirt, and _dear God_ suspenders. He was charming, funny, looked like he’d be a good time. But Rafael had pretty much left hook-ups like this behind in his twenties. He wasn’t going to turn into a monk but, after what had happened with the VICE cops, he was starting to think more long-term about his career trajectory and he had to admit that, if he wanted to rise in the ranks, he’d need to be a bit more careful when it came to his relationship with men. It wasn’t fair, but it was the way it was. He already had his upbringing against him, his ethnicity against him, his abrasive attitude and ego against him. Indiscrete flings with guys who had zero long-term potential were easier to get around than the rest.

 

Still, that didn’t mean he couldn’t _look_. Flirt. But an hour later, he had to shoot Pablo down when he suggested moving on to his place for “coffee.” He seemed to take it amicably enough, so Rafael had no reason to look over his shoulder as he headed to the men’s room for a last piss before catching a cab home.

 

That had been a mistake.

 

He never reported it.

 

He did get a therapist, who asks _why_ he wouldn’t report the assault at least four times in his first two sessions. The answer varies. _It’s too late now. Prosecution would be a challenge. I was too drunk to give a decent description. It was just a…a blow job. It could have been worse._ He never mentioned his fear that it would destroy his career working with the SVU before it could get off the ground. That he’d be tainted with the accusation of bias. It sounded like a pathetic reason to him. Wasn’t it hypocritical of him to bemoan the lack rape prosecutions, the lack of cooperative complainants, the public perception of male victims of sexual assault, when _he_ refused to go after the man who’d shoved him into a bathroom stall and…

 

He switched therapists two months later, and will never tell his new doctor about the incident. He’s fine talking about his childhood, his contentious relationship with his father, his struggles with his sexuality and people’s attitudes towards his sexuality, the stress of his work, his occasional insomnia, even his burgeoning compulsion over organizing his expanding wardrobe in just the right way, but this…this, he will always keep to himself. And every time he preps a survivor of sexual assault to take the stand, he marvels at their bravery and hates himself a bit more.

 


	8. Chapter 8

 

8.

 

The first time a defendant hit him, he was in his 2nd year as prosecutor for Brooklyn’s SVU.

 

He’d started making a name for himself. He was the guy to go to for the hard gets. Sadly, that was a characteristic of a majority of prosecutions of sex crimes. The long-term project he was working on with his therapist was learning to conceal his anger at the fact that he had to fight against the presumption of guilt against the _victims_.   In his earlier trials, he’d made the mistake of letting that anger get the best of him. Juries didn’t like to feel chastised. Since then, he’d honed a more effective style. He’d present a detached air, letting sarcasm and comically exaggerated disbelief shine through on cross to make him seem more human, but at least once or twice during the course of a trial, usually during closing, he’d become what his colleagues called “manipulatively emotionally available.” They weren’t wrong. He’d deliberately drop his walls, let the jury see how much _empathy_ he had for the victims, how much passion he had for bringing rapists, murderers, and pedophiles to justice. Sometimes, his voice would break. Sometimes, his eyes would start shining with unshed tears.

 

Most of his coworkers assumed it was all bullshit. He didn’t bother to correct them. Though his working relationship with the SVU was light years better than what he’d had with VICE, it had already started to become strained. Too much frustration over cleaning up after sloppy police procedures in one too many trials had led to him being more demanding, more controlling, during the investigative portions of cases. It didn’t win him any friends, but at least his prosecution record earned him respect.

 

That respect led him to being assigned to his first serial killer, Vic Eppes. He’d been getting more high-profile cases over the past year, some going outside of his specialty in sex crimes, but this was the case that could make or break his career. Eleven women, all sodomized with blunt objects before being stabbed to death and posed in public parks. It was horrific, and Rafael had spent a few sleepless nights terrified that he’d fail, that this bastard would be set free to kill again.

 

The defense counsel, Buchanan, made Rafael sick. He was a bully, and played to the ugliest parts of human nature. Rafael had seen in himself the capacity for the same back in law school, which is why he’d vowed to never become a criminal defense attorney. As for Buchanan, Rafael had come up against him before and had always been baffled that juries could be swayed by his smug intimidation of traumatized women. This time, Rafael’s strategy was to bury him in testimony from expert witnesses and in forensic evidence and to use the lack of survivors _against_ him. Let him _try_ to intimidate the country’s expert in blood spatter.

 

It was the last day he’d scheduled for prosecution. First up on stand was the psychologist who’d helped the NYPD build their profile of the suspect, to be followed the fingerprint expert who’d found the defendant’s prints on the array of bottles and hand tools that had been used in the sexual assaults _and_ latent prints the skin of three of the victims. The idea was to throw Eppes off balance with the shrink and then throw Buchanan off by resting with forensics rather than more sensational evidence, like photos of the crime scenes or of blood-soaked clothes found in his client’s apartment.

 

As the shrink testified about the probability of impotence when it came to stabbing cases (strategically interrupted by Rafael entering into evidence a bottle of Viagra found in Eppes’s medicine cabinet), Rafael watched the jury reacting to the visible rage on the defendant’s face. _This_ is what he wanted. He wanted the jury to see this harmless-looking man turn puce with indignation. He wanted Eppes to demand to take the stand during defense to refute the allegations. And he wanted to _ruin_ this man in front of _everyone_.

 

That was an ugly thought, and one he paid for when, at the end of the day, Eppes briefly broke free from the court officer and _head-butted_ Rafael in the face.

 

His first response was shock, shortly followed by a pained curse, then an _annoyed_ curse when blood dripped from his nose onto his very expensive shirt, and then laughter, because what the fuck was Eppes _thinking_? He might as well have confessed.

 

Later that night, his girlfriend was decidedly less amused. Though she cooed over his injuries and called him her _poor baby raccoon_ , prodding softly at the twin bruises blooming under his eyes, Vanessa was clearly uncomfortable with the proximity to violence.

 

Things were relatively new with her. They’d been seeing each other casually for three months. She was first in what would become a long and lucrative line of sugar mamas and daddies, though Rafael didn’t realize that at the time and certainly didn’t intend to find romantic partners who’d show affection and/or ownership by spoiling him with clothes, theater tickets, and luxurious vacations. He wasn’t sure what attracted these people to him. Perhaps it was a combination of his age (a decade younger than Vanessa, in this case), his confidence, his potential, his pathological blend of neediness and practiced role as the epitome of low maintenance. Vanessa typically just mooned over his eyes and shoved some Tom Ford at him. They got on well because she got excited over his descriptions of interviewing criminals and he got excited about her legs. But this? This was a bit to real for her to deal with.

 

She broke things off two days later with a nice Movado watch and a kiss on the cheek.

 

Rafael wore his bruises like a badge around the squad room and the watch like a weapon in the office.

 


	9. Chapter 9

9.

The first time he was choked with a belt was the night before his cross of Adam Cain.

He’d been in Manhattan for two months, acting as a pinch hitter until the DA decided whether to place him exclusively in one of the specialized prosecution units. It had only been a matter of time until a sex crime case came across his desk, though Steven Harris was a surprise. Rafael had met him years ago in Brooklyn when one of the squads went to shit in a corruption scandal. He hadn’t had time yet to get all the gossip on Manhattan’s Special Victims Unit and wondered just how badly they’d fucked up to get landed with Harris.

As the case had unfolded, Rafael started taking creating a mental dossier on the detectives. Prosecuting rape and murder cases was his wheelhouse, after all, and he knew the likelihood that he’d have to work closely with these people. In his final years in Brooklyn, Rafael had become notorious for his thick skin (and ego and sass and flash wardrobe). It was self-defense, all of it, building up those callouses that let him detach from human tragedy for long enough to focus on things he could have an impact on: the presentation of facts, and the way the jury interpreted them. Some cops didn’t like that. Some victims didn’t. When he could, Rafael would drop the act, show that of course it ate him up, the capacity humans have to tear each other apart in the most heinous ways, but more often than not, he just couldn’t do it. Not until he was home.

So he flat out warned Jocelyn Paley (and, by extension, Olivia Benson) that he wasn’t there to be her friend, to make her feel safe and make her look good. He was there to grab her hand as she was already going through Hell and to keep dragging her through it. With luck, they’d come out relatively clean on the other side.

The Manhattan SVU detectives, he could tell, would be slow to warm up to him. Benson was clearly the veteran, one who somehow had become an impassioned advocate rather than jaded. He’d need to keep an eye out that her idea of doing the right thing wouldn’t screw him in the courtroom. Holding the moral high ground wasn’t much good if it didn’t lead to a conviction. Rollins, he’d estimated, would be trouble, too. She clearly had trust issues when it came to working in a team, and the last thing he wanted was to have to clean up after her messes when she refused to follow orders.

But he was getting ahead of himself. He needed to win this case if he wanted to establish himself as the go-to guy for SVU. Which brought him to the doorstep of Madame Chloe. Her real name was Petunia Smithson and, despite the horrendous French accent, Rafael knew she was from Jersey. A year ago, she was called by defense as a consulting expert on BDSM in a trial he was coaching a new ADA through. He always liked to keep tabs of people juries found entertaining.

“This isn’t an official consultation,” Rafael had warned her on the phone when he’d made the appointment. “Just…a tutorial. For old time’s sake.”

“Whatever you say, darling. But tell me, are you still wearing those delicious suspenders?” she teased. Definitely Jersey.

In her parlor, the night before he intended to cross-examine Adam Cain, Rafael showed Madame Chloe his cards.

“This girl has her career against her. You know how it is. I need to get the smug son of a bitch to drop the charm on the stand.”

“And what is it you think I could do for you?”

“One of his previous victims said something – that he’s a good guy who just loses it when he gets a belt in his hand. I think I need to make a demonstration of that.”

“Of…what? Him choking a woman with his belt?”

“Not a woman.”

He wasn’t expecting the cackling.

“You can’t be serious!” she wheezed, daintily wiping the corner of her eye lest her makeup smudge. “You think the judge will let you let him wrap a belt around your neck?”

“You don’t know the judge,” he smirked.

“Ok. Ok, say the judge agrees. Again, what do you want from me?”

“Two things. One – tips on how to push him over the edge. I don't think he’ll sink into the scene right away, and there’s a time limit to a judge’s patience for theatricality, no matter how well I sell it.”

“And two?”

“A practice run. Tonight.”

“Those kinds of services run extra, babe.”

“I’m not asking for the full treatment, Petunia. Just…one demonstration. This thing will hinge on him being visibly violent but still not leaving the kinds of marks he did on Jocelyn Paley. If all I’d do is show the jury that those bruises could come from barely a tug, I’m not going through with it.”

“And what’s the other reason you want a demonstration?” she asked shrewdly. Rafael supposed that reading people, what they wanted and what they were afraid to want, was part of her work. That didn’t make this any easier. He did his best not to think of…that.

“I need to know if I can take it. I have…let’s call it history. With being in a chokehold. I don’t want to overreact in court.”

“It wouldn’t be overreaction, Mr. Barba.”

“It would feel that way. So, can you help?”

“I’d love to. Not everyone who enjoys a bit of breath play is a monster like this asshole. Now, why don’t you take off your tie?”

He won the case. He drew some stares at the office. He earned his stripes with SVU. It was a start.

If he went home to a bottle of scotch, well, that was a start, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains discussion of breath play.


	10. Chapter 10

 

10.

 

The first time he faced a gun was during the Johnny Drake trial.

 

He’d seen guns before, of course. Between the kids flashing them as badges of machismo in the old neighborhood, crime scene reports, and over fifteen years working with cops, of _course_ he’s seen guns. He’s even fired them a few times, during an ill-considered fling with a traffic cop he’d met when he started working in Manhattan. That she thought foreplay required firearms should have warned him off.

 

Still, he’d never been around guns pulled with the intent to kill until that moment. And he froze. The moment Johnny D had flipped his shit (and table) and pulled the court officer’s gun, he became hyperaware of the chaos of the room. He saw Liv and Amaro drawing their weapons. He saw members of the jury and opposing counsel diving away for cover. All this action, the almost visceral wave of fear, the shouting…and Rafael stayed seated in his chair. He didn’t even duck. Anyone would think he’d been bored by the whole thing.

 

Until Elana Barth was shot, and then he was flying across the room, giving no mind to the fact that Drake was still there, looking for a target.

 

He’d gone to law school with Elana. They weren’t particularly close then and had barely socialized in the intervening years, apart from some working lunches and dinner parties where the goal of networking superseded genuine connection, but he knew her well enough to be shocked out of his shock. He noticed Drake and Amaro leaving the room, heard the volley of gunshots, but was primarily focused on applying pressure to the blooming wound on the judge’s shoulder.

 

“You’re fine. You’ll be fine,” he whispered, shoving his balled-up jacket under her head.

 

“I just bought this shirt,” she laughed wetly.

 

“I’d be more worried about the bra. You know the paramedics are going to cut open that shirt when they get here. Hope it’s flattering,” he teased, looking around for said paramedics rather than into her scared eyes.

 

“Fuck you,” she laughed, and then they were interrupted by a flurry of movement as the EMTs arrived.

 

It was until later, after he’d heard from Liv that Amaro would be ok, after he heard from Elana’s girlfriend, after he’d called his mother and after he reassured Carmen that he was fine, that he noticed the blood on his hands.

 

He threw up in the men’s room and then spent the next fifteen minutes scrubbing his hands to a painful pink.

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

 

 

NOW

 

11.

 

The first time he gets a death threat is a few weeks after indicting three police officers for the shooting of Terrence Reynolds.

 

He can’t say he’s surprised, given how absolutely shitty his life has been since then.

 

It had stung when the DA threw him under the bus by assigning him the case in the first place, selling it as a way to resuscitate Rafael’s relationship with City Hall following his prosecution of DCS officials (never mind the fact that the DA signed off on said prosecution). The reality of the situation was that Rafael was damaged goods, politically. He’d been seen as someone who’d gladly turn on his own, whether that meant corrupt politicians, twisted lawyers, or criminal cops, since he’d transferred to Manhattan. The DA figured that putting him on the Reynolds case was a win-win. Either Rafael would secure the indictment, showing the city that the NYPD would be held to a higher standard, or he’d go down swinging and take the blame for both trying and failing.

 

Initially, Rafael dreaded going to the grand jury because he trusted Liv’s judgment that it was a good shoot. In the years he had known her, between falling for her and accepting that it wasn’t going to happen, he’d started to rely, perhaps too much, on her moral compass. It was easier, somehow, in cases when all of his legal experience told him a conviction was near impossible, to leave the decision to prosecute up to her. It didn’t really assuage his guilt when he lost, but there was at least a visceral, if petty, pleasure in being able to say _I told you so._

Then he saw the video, heard Benson’s programmed and unthinking loyalty, and that dread shifted focus. He wanted to get these guys, and that meant going against his friends.

 

Sure, “friend” might be a stretch when it came to Carisi, but he’d come to respect the man, admiring his enthusiasm and kindness and…dimples. He was genuinely disappointed when Carisi brushed off the scrutiny of the shooting as “hindsight.” As if that was any sort of legal defense, let alone moral one.

 

Olivia, though, was worse. At least Carisi made a point to smooth things over with him, days later. Liv just hunkered down in that obstinate way she had when she was desperate to show off some moral superiority. Normally, he loved that about her. She had principles and she stood up for them. This time, however, he was on the other side of those principles. She, like so many cops he’d known over the years, was so reluctant to criticize _any_ fellow police officer that it blinded her to the larger problems at work. If what had happened to Terrence Reynolds was in accordance with police procedure, than procedure was fucking _wrong_ , and Liv should have owned that. She wouldn’t or couldn’t, though, and things have been chilly between them since.

 

With the stress of working with 1PP and the three officers and various defense counselors and union reps to hopefully hammer out a plea agreement rather than going to trial, Rafael wishes he had his friend to talk to.

 

Instead, he gets Sonny Carisi.

 

“Bet you could use another,” he says, sitting down next to him, uninvited, and motioning for another scotch. How these people keep finding him at the various bars he frequented, Rafael would never know.

 

“In _hindsight_ , I think the fourth glass should have been my last,” he answers. Lies. He fully intends to keep drinking until he forgets that tomorrow will be another day with the sword of fucking Damocles hanging over his head.

 

“Look, I’m not going to defend what I said, _or_ what happened to that kid. I’m just here to let you know that I realize the tough spot you’re in. I mean, I usually only have you and the lieutenant breathing down my neck. Can’t imagine how you deal with so many _people_ coming at you from all sides, wanting a piece.”

 

Sonny is making that earnest face again. The one that makes Rafael want to squirm.

 

“‘You want a piece of me?’” should be my motto.”

 

“Yeah. Get a tattoo.”

 

“On my palms. Jazz hands my way into fights.”

 

They stare at each other for a split second before both cracking up, even though it wasn’t that funny, and Rafael feels absurdly proud of himself.

 

“Seriously, though. How did the grand jury play out? Gotta tell ya, I was surprised. I mean, _manslaughter_?”

 

“I tried to tell them that a conviction would be near impossible,” Rafael sighs. Still, he supposed they’d wanted to send a message.

 

“If anyone could do it, it’d be you,” Sonny gushes, fiddling with the peeling label on his bottle of beer.

 

“I hope it won’t get that far,” Rafael admits. “Selfishly, I’m afraid that’d ruin me for New York. I can’t see myself working effectively with cops when I’ve put their fellow officers in prison, can you?”

 

“Not all of us think that way,” Sonny equivocates. Rafael swallows down a bitter _Liv does_.

 

“Hopefully they’ll take a plea. Dumas is going to. I just want this to be over.”

 

“I get that.”

 

The night ends soon after, and Rafael is pouring himself into bed when he gets the text.

 

He’d been getting hang-ups at the office for two weeks, which unnerved Carmen to no end but were harmless. This, though…

 

**WHO ARE YOU GOING TO CALL FOR HELP NOW**

 

He doesn’t know.

 

And he doesn’t respond, and he doesn’t report it.

 

He falls asleep with his _abuelita’s_ voice in his head: _You need to learn what they’re willing to hear._

 


	12. Chapter 12

 

12.

 

The first time they call his home is two months later.

 

He’d gotten used to the texts, the hang-ups at his office. Carmen kept an eye out for letters, but none came. He’d brushed it off as cowardly posturing. If he was right and these were cops, they could have already made life hell for him if they’d really wanted to start something. He’d seen it happen to a friend working in Jersey. He’d convicted a highway patrol officer of solicitation, and ever since, he’d been harassed by the police, constantly pulled over, even followed home. None of that was happening to Rafael, so he told himself that these texts were nothing. Unpleasant to read, especially the ones that implied sexual violence, but relatively harmless.

 

Getting a call on his home landline at four in the morning, hearing a digitally altered voice tell him that he’d better make the most of this Christmas…

 

Rafael isn’t a stranger to fear, or to the anticipation of violence. He remembers the nights when his father would calmly tell him that he was going to teach him some respect as soon as he finished his drink. That could mean hours spent waiting in his room, trying and failing to get some homework done while listening for movement in the hallway, cursing his father for making him wish he’d get there sooner. But just because this is a familiar feeling doesn’t mean it is welcome, and certainly doesn’t mean it’s any easier.

 

It was probably a good thing that the guy hung up before Rafael could respond. Whatever taunt he’d have come up with would likely have made the situation ten times worse.

 

The first thing he does the following morning is to call the office and arrange for O’Dwyer to take over his caseload.

 

The second thing is to call his mother and say he’s going on a vacation with a “friend.” She always backed off from gossip when he used non gender-specific language like that.

 

Then, he drinks himself into a stupor.

 

Because if this is going to be his life from now on, breaking out in cold sweats every time his phone rings and amassing an impressive file of increasingly graphic death threats on his cell, he needs to man up. His apartment is depressing, sterile and displaying signs of the mild OCD he’s been battling since his early 30s. His love life is depressing, with nothing lasting more than a few weeks, if that. His social life is depressing, limited now to work friends who drop him as soon as he makes things difficult and law school friends he barely speaks to. All he has is this job, and he’d be damned if he started to dread it.

 

So, this is his last hurrah. He plans to drink himself sick for a week or two, revel in some patented Barba combo of self-loathing and ego stroking, and then STOP. The drinking, that is. Briefly, he imagines his apartment as a crime scene. Does he want someone like Liv or Carisi or _Rollins_ rifling through his life, making note of the growing collection of half-empty scotch bottles, marveling at the way his ties, suspenders, and socks are arranged by color in his walk-in closet, pitying the lack of more personal mementoes like pictures of friends and family?

 

It’s obscene, and just the mental exercise Rafael needs. These threats, he’s sure, would lead to nothing, but in case they…he wants to be damn sure that he’d be _missed_ , not just pitied. He needs to make things right. With Liv, with the job, with his mom (who still resents him, for _many_ reasons, but primarily because he all but killed her mother). He needs to stop drinking every night to deal with the stress of it all and instead work on eliminating the stress. He needs to remember that he loves being in the courtroom, just like he loves leaving work and enjoying the pleasures his city has to offer.

 

He just needs some time.

 

He rips the phone out of the wall, throws it against his bedroom door, and pours himself another drink.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This Chapter includes discussion of compulsive behavior and unhealthy levels of alcohol use.


	13. Chapter 13

 

13.

 

The first time his mother is threatened is two months later, and it almost makes him want to burn the NYPD to the ground, because it’s his _mother_.

 

He was just getting off the phone with his boss, smoothing some feathers that had been ruffled by his loss in the D’Amico trial and the subsequent public release of Rollins’s ill-conceived attempt at a bust. Generally, things had been getting better. Sure, his resolution to quit drinking had failed spectacularly when Hank Abraham had revealed himself to be a pedophile. He hadn’t seen that coming. Despite that setback, Rafael had gotten his confidence back, had established a civil, if not warm, working relationship with Liv, had expanded his group of free-time friends to include Carisi and, on the rare occasion, Rita Calhoun, and had even started redecorating his apartment.

 

So, while he wouldn’t say he was _happy_ , exactly, he’s been learning to live with the occasional death threat.

 

When it comes through his mother, though…that’s something else.

 

She calls almost immediately after he hangs up with the DA, her panic stinging him through the line. Apparently, someone had slipped a newspaper clipping under her door that morning. In the news coverage of the D’Amico case, there was a photograph with Rafael standing in the background, talking to some reporters. There, someone had drawn a red target over his chest.

 

“What _is_ this, Rafi?” Lucia Barba keeps asking over his demands for more information.

 

<<It’s nothing, mom. It’s a joke,>> he sooths, all the while packing up his briefcase with his free hand. Because it’s not a joke. It’s a message that they can get to the one person who loves him, and he needs to deal with it _now_. “Look, I’m going to come over tonight and take you to dinner, ok? Six?”

 

“Make it five. And be prepared to tell me what’s going on, because _this_? This is not nothing!”

 

He’s out of the office as soon as she hangs up, barking at Carmen to cancel his appointments.

 

Tim Burke is a high-end security consultant he’d met a few years ago. Rafael had been toying with the idea of going to him with his problem for a while, but had put it off because a) the threats hadn’t been escalating despite lasting for almost six months, and b) Rafael typically found it awkward to stay friends with former flings. This, though? Dragging his mother into it? That was escalation enough to get him over any awkwardness.

 

Tim demands to see his cell phone while Rafael makes a rough time line of events.

 

“And you think these threats are coming from a cop?” Tim asks, frowning as he reads a text. Maybe it was the one reminding him that fourteen rapists he’d put in prison were now out on parole and would probably love to get hands on his address.

 

“Or several cops,” Rafael nods. “Things started not too long after I indicted three officers for shooting an unarmed man. The timing, and the fact that the first communication mentioned having no one to call for help, solidified the theory. I could be wrong, though.”

 

“I bet you piss off a lot of people,” Tim adds, not unkindly.

 

“I try my best,” Rafael answers with a forced smirk. “Here. Timeline.” It’s unnerving, seeing it spelled out like that. It’s little wonder this his well hidden anxiety has again been manifesting itself in compulsive organization at home.

 

“I have to say, I don’t like this. I really think you should go to the police. Don’t you have any friends on the force you can trust?”

 

“Maybe. Is it really at that point, though?” Rafael has trouble imagining taking this to his few remaining friends at SVU. With what they have to deal with on a daily basis, this all seems so _petty_. He feels he should be able to deal with an average of two texts a week, especially when some were so…half-hearted. “We’re watching.” He isn’t exactly trembling with fear. He’s had worse.

 

“Maybe,” Tim answers. “Look, my job is to make you safer and to help you _feel_ safer. So, what would that take?”

 

“I need my mother protected. I don’t…I just need her safe, but preferably in the most understated way possible or she’ll make my life a living hell.” Frankly, he’d take death threats over Lucia Barba in a rampage any day.

 

Four hours later, Tim and his guys are finishing up installing security cameras, alarms, and better locks at both his and his mother’s apartments. Tim also gives him two panic buttons that would summon the private security force he contracted, rather than the police.

 

“Thanks for this, Tim,” Rafael says as he walks the man back down to his car. “I’m assuming you don’t normally do rush jobs like this personally. I appreciate it.”

 

“It’s no problem,” he answers, letting a friendly hand linger on Rafael’s back like an open invitation for a different sort of comfort. “And remember, if anyone actually approaches you, we’re taking this to the police. Make some goddam friends there if you have to. Find someone you can trust.”

 

“Will do,” Rafael answers.

 

To be honest, he’s more concerned about how he’d explain this to his mother.

 


	14. Chapter 14

 

14.

 

The first time he seriously believes that the threats will lead to action is when he sees the mob of correctional officers amassing on the steps of the courthouse the day Gary Munson is charged.

 

Even though he’s sure that he has cops to thank for the low-level terror he’s been dealing with for months, he’s wary of throwing himself into _any_ angry mob at this point in time, so he does the smart thing and asks Benson and Dodds for an escort.

 

Then he does the stupid thing and gives his home address to the man threatening to push him down the stairs.

 

To be fair, he’d tried to avoid confrontation all together. Apparently, Liv didn’t understand what “walk me out so I don’t get the shit beat out of me” meant, because she and Dodds had basically disappeared the minute he ran into the wall of COs.

 

So Rafael finds himself falling back on his tried and true method of dealing with people who step up to him. He acts like he has an army behind him, puffs himself up, and shows no fear.

 

He hopes no one saw the shaky way he deflated once left alone, the way he almost stumbled down a step as if the ground were falling out from under him.

 

He tells Liv about the threat. Singular. He knows he looks rattled, can’t hide _that_ , but he’s not about to talk about the months and months of calls and texts, about his reluctance to go to her earlier because of Terrence Reynolds, and then because of Tucker. He’s certainly not going to admit to giving his _address_ to the guy, and God, what was he thinking? That they probably already know where he lives? He doubts that occurred to him before he pulled out his business card.

 

“A face in the crowd,” is the only description he gives her. _You’d have seen him if you’d been there_ , he doesn’t say.

 

She doesn’t seem too worried. It’s just one guy, just idle talk, and the case is more important. Rafael can accept that.

 

He can also accept that bringing random strangers home with him the next three nights, just to feel a sense of security, is a dickish thing to do, but he does it anyway.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This and the following chapter contain spoilers for the final two episodes of season 17.


	15. Chapter 15

 

15.

 

The first time he truly fears for his life is when he’s trapped in the elevator with a man who points out that he has an endless list of enemies.

 

It’s not that the guy is physically intimidating. He’s on the short side, with a baby face and a small smile that Rafael imagines he practices in the mirror so he looks above it all. It needs work.

 

Still, Rafael finds it difficult to breathe, to focus his vision, in that small space. He’d thought this building was secure. He’d thought…office, station, courthouse. Safe. Safe-ish. If this was a demonstration that Rafael could be gotten to _anywhere_ , it worked. He’s done ignoring the problem, done trying to put on a brave face. The minute the elevator door opens, he grabs the closest guy in uniform for help.

 

Telling Rollins and Carisi is more difficult. He realizes it was probably childish machismo that had kept him quiet for so long, and he embraces that childishness when Rollins announces she’s calling Liv, feeling like he’s back in school and being sent to the principal’s office _again_.

 

Sonny looms in close, as usual, perching on his desk instead of sitting in the perfectly good chair in front of it, but the claustrophobia Rafael had felt in the elevator is gone. He’s feeling lighter, and not just because of the adrenaline crash. Tim’s alarms and cameras and panic buttons had helped, but he’d needed _these_ people on this. It would be fine.

 

It’s not fine.

 

Dodds. Dodds is dead and Rafael can’t stop the thought that it was supposed to be _him_.

 

It’s not logical. Munson had nothing to do with the threats against Rafael. But he’d gotten it into his head that, if anyone on the team were going to get hurt, it was his turn. Not Dodds, who was _engaged_ for Christ’s sake. Dodds who was brave, who’d made his daddy issues work for him, who’d had a bright future ahead of him and someone to live for. It wasn’t right.

 

The next few days are a bit of a blur.

 

There’s the funeral and wake, which Rafael had considered skipping before admitting to himself that he’d _never_ disrespect Dodds like that, even if he’s feeling too guilty and vulnerable and raw to be around a bunch of drunk cops.

 

There’s Sonny’s dimply reassurances and awkward offer to sleep over at Rafael’s “for protection.” Rafael knows that would be a _horrible_ idea, given the amount of booze in his system.

 

There’s the squinty-eyed promise from Liv that she’d figure out who’s after him, even if it’s obvious she’s distracted.

 

And then, there’s the arrest of Felipe Heredio.

 

It’s not as satisfying as Rafael had hoped, once it becomes clear that Heredio’s just a hired mouthpiece. Finding him is not the end of anything. Based on the fact that threat assessment’s leading to a 24/7 security detail, Rafael is sick to think that it’s the _start_ of something worse.

 

While he’s in the station, Rafael does his best to act like it’s all a minor inconvenience. He chats with Sonny, asks after Liv, and then goes home, tailed by a black SUV filled with current and former NYPD detectives who will make up the day shift of his security detail for the foreseeable future.

 

He escorts them into his apartment building, and Tim is there waiting, as requested. They go over the systems already in place, both there and at his mom’s, talk about his routine and what to expect going forward.

 

“Am I allowed to have company over, or would they need to be vetted?” he asks, itching to get all of these strangers out of his home. He can almost feel the detectives eyeballing the way his pantry is organized by color.

 

“Ideally, you won’t have anyone over without advanced notice. We’re not going to search people you walk in yourself, so if you do bring someone home, make sure you know them well. We’re going to be as unobtrusive as possible unless the situation changes. We’ll post guards by the door, sweep the block, drive you to and from the office, that sort of thing. We’ll reassess in a week.” Hal Brady, the detective in charge, seems competent. Straightforward. Not too pissed off to be on this particular detail, which is the most promising sign.

 

“I’m guessing this will go on until it’s no longer perceived as a credible threat,” Rafael sighs. “What exactly is that decision based on?”

 

“Frequency and language of any future texts and phone calls. Direct confrontation. Evidence of surveillance. There are a lot of factors that go into this, counselor.”

 

“And if the people involved _do_ turn out to be law enforcement, and presumably familiar with procedure here, what’s to say they won’t just wait until your guys are gone? Would you ever consider, I don’t know, a trap? Pulling your people back so it looks like I’m exposed?”

 

Tim looks at him like he’s crazy, and Rafael _feels_ crazy for even suggesting it, but Brady nods. “It’s been done before. But I wouldn’t recommend it in this situation, and certainly not yet.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Because, if it _is_ a cop, he might be a good enough shot to take you down from a distance and get away before we could move in.”

 

Rafael feels sick. He feels like he’s staring down his father’s belt and like he’s being shoved into that bathroom stall and like he’s being crowded against the elevator wall and he needs these people _out_ of his home, _right now_.

 

“Right. Fan _tast_ ic. Is this everything?”

 

He must look like hell, because they leave him alone soon after, the duty rotation and photos of his guard detail on the coffee table to memorize.

 

In the quiet of his apartment, he’s now at a loss. He’s simultaneously exhausted and crawling out of his skin. He wants to hide in his bed and he wants to fight, wants to call Eddie ( _God, he was a CO. Wonder if he hates me now, too_ ) and he wants to call his therapist and he wants to call his _abuelita_. He hates that the security detail has made this more real and hates how grateful he feels for their presence. He worries that one or more of them won’t do their job because he’s who he is and he worries more that they _will_ and will get themselves killed for it. He wants to undo every decision that led him to this moment and he wants to issue a press release calling these assholes out because _fuck them_ , he did the right thing.

 

Finally, after twenty minutes of letting himself unravel, Rafael pulls out his phone and dials the safest number he could think of.

 

“Hey, it’s me. Do you think you can come over?”

 

Because what he wants most is someone who’s usually willing to hear _anything_ he has to say, even an admission that he’s not sure how much longer he can do this.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end of my first SVU fic!
> 
> I know it seems like a cliffhanger. Initially, I didn't want to write too much into the future of the series, though I may have laid the groundwork for a Barba/Carisi sequel, as that's whom I imagined he called at the end of the story. If that particular pairing doesn't appeal to you, imagine him reaching out to anyone.


End file.
